


The Olive Tree

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [16]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Art, F/M, Sculpture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 21:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Napoleon adds a new piece of artwork to his office, with unexpected results.





	The Olive Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal's Section7MFU - Short Affair Challenge  
> Prompts: sculpture / green
> 
> This story was also partly inspired by the _Everybody Loves Raymond_ episode “Marie’s Sculpture.”

Solo and Kuryakin turned into their corridor, crossing paths with a pair of pencil-skirted secretaries. “Good morning, ladies,” Napoleon said as he smoothly stepped aside.  
  
The women blushed and giggled. He watched in bemused appreciation as they hurried away, whispering to each other and darting glances back at him.  
  
“What do you make of that?” Napoleon asked as he caught up to his partner.  
  
“I abandoned such speculations long ago.”  
  
Their office door slid open. A third secretary emerged and froze at the sight of them. “Monica?” Napoleon said. With a gasp, she slapped him across the face and stalked off.  
  
“Interesting date last night?” Illya asked and walked through the doorway.  
  
“I didn’t have one,” Napoleon replied, rubbing his cheek.  
  
Illya’s eyes widened as he stared at Napoleon’s desk. He put on his glasses and stared again.  
  
Napoleon shifted the bronze sculpture a few degrees and moved the green marble base an inch to the right. “What do you think?”  
  
“Apparently it is not to everyone’s tastes,” he said and sat down.  
  
Napoleon frowned. “Are you kidding me? This is an original Pierrot and very valuable.”  
  
“Then where did you get it?”  
  
“From an admirer. It arrived in this morning’s mail. And there’s no need for that look. Demolition checked it thoroughly.”  
  
“No doubt. But I wonder if sending it by post was a violation of your Comstock Act.”  
  
Napoleon winked. “Maybe just the note that came with it. I guess my olive tree is too avant-garde for you.”  
  
“That is not a tree. It is a man and woman making love.” He began filling out a report. “The only thing avant-garde is their technique.”  
  
Napoleon tilted his head and squinted at the bronze. “How long since you’ve had a date?”  
  
Illya pointed his pen. “Look there. The woman’s hand is clearly on his—.”  
  
“Those are olives.”  
  
“We shall get another opinion.” Illya rolled his chair to the wall and knocked out shave-and-a-haircut. Within a few moments two metallic thuds came in response.  
  
“You banged?” Faustina asked, entering the office. Her brows lifted when she saw the sculpture, and her lips let out a low whistle. “She’s certainly flexible. Is that her hand on his—?”  
  
“It’s an olive tree,” Napoleon insisted.  
  
She reached up to the filing cabinet and turned the stuffed lobster until it faced the wall. “Sorry, Moby. We’ll explain when you’re older.”  
  
The door slid open for Mark. “Here’s that report for you.” As he handed it to Napoleon, he did a double-take. “Crikey Moses.”  
  
“It’s a tree,” Napoleon said between clenched teeth.  
  
Mark spun the bronze slowly. “This, mate, is the beast with two backs. Though I think I’ve counted five hands so far.”  
  
“Mark, you forgot a page.” April’s mouth dropped open as she joined them. She turned to Napoleon. “I’m not a prude, darling, but that might be a tad risqué for the office.”  
  
“It’s a tree,” the others responded in chorus before Napoleon could.  
  
“Don’t you all have more important things to do?”  
  
Faustina leered at Mark. “Care to come over and see my etchings?”  
  
“Mother warned me against girls like you.” He extended his elbow, and they strolled out, murmuring conspiratorially.  
  
April whispered in Napoleon’s ear, “If you want me, I’ll be in the Map Room.” She kissed his cheek and exited, her hips swaying markedly.  
  
  
  
“Where did all this come from?” Napoleon asked the next morning.  
  
Illya followed his gesture to the assorted items surrounding the sculpture. “Are they not yours? I thought you might be starting a collection.”  
  
“Not me.” He activated the door. A trio of agents stood on the threshold, bursting with stifled laughter. He grimaced and waved them in.  
  
Napoleon picked up a gold keycard embossed with his name. “The Playboy Club?”  
  
Faustina’s grin widened. “You’re paid up for the year.”  
  
He nodded, then exchanged the card for a book. _“Mating Rituals of the Uvanto Tribe.”_  
  
Mark raised his hand in acknowledgment, lips compressed, shoulders shaking.  
  
Napoleon sighed. He held up a 45 single and looked at April. “Yours?”  
  
“‘Je T’aime…Moi Non Plus.’” She took the album from his hand and tapped it lightly against his chin. “The Bardot version.”  
  
“Aren’t you forgetting one?” Illya asked.  
  
Napoleon tore his eyes away from April. “Last but not least, a playbill from _Oh, Calcutta!_ Demolition or secretaries?”  
  
“Me actually,” Illya admitted.  
  
Faustina clapped her hands together. “Not a party pooper after all.”  
  
Napoleon swung an incredulous gaze between them. “You’ve seen it already?”  
  
She nodded. “He called it ‘puerile and disappointing.’”  
  
“You would probably like it,” Illya told him.  
  
“That’s it.” Napoleon pulled a box from under his desk. “I’m taking my olive tree home.”  
  
“But there’s more for tomorrow,” Faustina protested as he packed the bronze away. “I have _Tropic of Cancer_ in a brown paper cover, all ready to go.”  
  
The five agents gave a start as Mr. Waverly harrumphed from the doorway. “Mr. Solo, what’s all this nonsense I hear about vulgar artwork?”  
  
Napoleon swallowed. “Just a misunderstanding, sir. It’s really a tree, but apparently others see something more salacious.”  
  
Mr. Waverly peered into the box. His eyebrows shot upwards. “And well they might. Do take it away, Mr. Solo, before it disconcerts personnel any further.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
  
  
Napoleon sat at the bar and ordered a martini with two onions.  
  
“Did you like my gift, sweetheart?” asked the voluptuous blonde on the stool beside his.  
  
“Yes, it was very, ah, thoughtful.”  
  
“You admired it so at my place in Crete. I hoped that it would remind you of our time together.”  
  
He turned to face her. “Oh, it did. Particularly our picnic in the garden. Is that why you told me it was named _The Olive Tree_?”  
  
She chuckled. “You called it an olive tree, love. I just agreed with you.”  
  
“So what is it really named?”  
  
 _“Angelique.”_  
  
“After you, of course.”  
  
“Of course.” She took the drink from his hand and finished it. “Would you like me to show you how I inspired it?”  
  
Napoleon smiled. “Your place or mine?”


End file.
